192 hours.

For the past 8 days, loving him has been like enduring open heart surgery without anesthesia. Metaphorically speaking, of course.  All of my theories and convictions about love are undergoing great scrutiny, and sometimes I can't tell my heart from my head. On a brighter note, they are finally starting to come to an agreement: Love is a gorgeous mess.

For the past 3 years (almost), I've been one of three corners in a technical love triangle of friendlationship. (Yes, friendlationship is friendship + relationship. Hear that, Webster?) Infidelity was avoided, but I still ended up being the victim of betrayal. Ultimately, my desire was to keep this out of the blogworld until time created a healthy amount of distance between the confession and the pain that ensued. However, my words provide me healing. Hopefully, it will give my readers the same benefit.

If you read between the lines of my love and I's story, then you will see annotations of another significant bond in his life. This bond, while purposeful in its valuing of genuine friendship, carried the weight of the "What If". Granted, it was incapable of stunting the progression of passion between my love and I. Nonetheless, the fantasy of potential was fed, subtly...until the moment it was strong enough to take on a life of its own. This significant moment fell parallel with the season we took a breather from The Title, mind you. I think the instant I knew that I loved someone who had questionable feelings for someone else, I realized that it would always be the three of us. The night I held his confession letter, I was escorted back to that night I saw him holding her from the reflection of my darkened computer screen. It felt like deja-vu, almost. Although I didn't understand why my heart felt heavy that night so long ago, the rush of past connecting with the present gave me clarity. And it only took me a second to track through every conversation, each moment I quieted the sickening feeling in my gut, and every instance I forced myself to trust him.

My love and I are well on our way to recovery and reconciliation. However, my interaction with the third corner is in a peculiar place. I know most would say that reaching out to her is unnecessary, but my heart beckoned me to. She is peculiar to me, because I'm told that she places only a feather's weight on what happened. Therefore, my attempts to reconcile seem to come off annoying and juvenile....and she is well within her rights to ignore me and my heart. Although it pains me, I will shake the metaphorical dust off of my feet and try to repair and rebuild. I am allergic to dysfunction, but I will not run from it. I'll choose, instead, to war with it.

My love is actively working to gain my trust back. As with the third corner, she sees no point in responding to my extension of forgiveness. No worries, though. I have her scent; matched with a keen sense of smell.

**Update (March 22, 2010): I've talked to the third corner and from our conversation, I've gained closure about her.

My Heart Benches About 350...

I'm known to be a slow gravitator towards retaliation. Even as a teenager, I can count on my hands the number of times that I actively sought revenge. Not that I've never wanted to hurt someone who hurt me...but I think that I have always feared what it would be like to hold vengance in my heart for too long. Long enough where it would change me...

This has not kept me from getting hurt, mind you. Sometimes I feel that my pain is more severe than others. The blow of disappointment and betrayal sharper because I choose not to deflect it by blaming others or focusing on revenge.

I've been told that I am too sensitive.

And that my heart is too big for my own good.

That I take to heart things that the average person would shrug off easily.

All are correct....

But, in doing much soul searching, I've come to realize that I actually....like...this part of me.

Though it curses me to exist with a wide open heart; increasingly susceptible to hurt...I have been given a Strength that girds my heart with armor. The unpentrable nature shows on the inside rather than permeates the outside...like most hearts seem to be.

I'm not of the weak, naive, or ignorant.

I look at pictures of old loves with new loves and can smile.

Shake the hands of those who used them once to do me harm.

And strive to live peaceably with all men.

Each time I extend an embrace. Take notice, but Forgive a personal grievance.

Consider my own short-comings before estimating another's character.

And plead with a fair-weather friend for restoration.

I feel my heart getting stronger.

Bigger....but stronger.

Be.Still. (Part Two -- Anger)

I hated him for what he did to me.
To my mother.

I remember nights as a small girl,
gazing at his kind, black eyes with my bed's sheer pink canopy
outlining the safety in his expression. "Good night, my baby", he would say.
And I believed him...
...after all, he was the only father I'd ever known as a girl.
He let me prop my tiny feet on his and dance across the living room to the Temptations.
He bought me beautiful, Black barbie dolls for Christmas
and
made heartfelt, awful attempts at braiding my hair while my mom worked double shifts.

But soon after I had to learn how to master the side ponytail on my own.
And my mother's role became unisex.

He left.

And I'd never known hatred until that afternoon
when I saw him raise that strong hand above my brother's head.
That same hand that I usually felt open-palmed to swat my behind after misbehaving...
...now clenched to form a fist.
My mother's shrill cry preceded
I sat at the end of the hallway feeling a lump form in my chest.
I hated him.
My world started to speed up; progressing in a spinning motion.
Circling past moments where I was content and safe...
...ending up right back where I sat at the end of my hallway.

I danced with anger.
A slow, simple grind
entrancing.
Switching back and forth from waltz to tango.
...and my world moved with us.

It wasn't until I saw him 13 years later that
my world stopped spinning.
His father had died and my mother wanted to pay respects to his family.
I wasn't expecting to see him that day, but the moment I looked up
and saw him: older, shorter, and more docile...
I froze. Swallowed. and felt no lump there.

Stillness taught me another lesson:
Forgiveness is the gate that leads to the path of Freedom.

If you enjoyed this blog, please click "Vote" (green button) below. Thanks!

Your Life. Our Stage. Sponsored by La Jolla Playhouse